Dreams are like smoke.
You try to grab hold,
but they dance around your fingers,
mockingly,
until they disappear completely.

Memories are like fog.
Sitting on the ground,
clouding your judgement,
making reality harder and harder too see.

Unless they are where they are supposed to be.
High above.
Such a beautiful sight in the sky floating around the sun.

Its only when they HAUNT that they fall toward the earth.
And engulf us.
We try to grab hold.
But the vapors in air slip through our hand leaving us empty,
wishing for them to come back